Текст книги "The Thief"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Justin Scott
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

37

“Lights!” The director of Hell’s Bellsshouted into his megaphone.

The dynamo roared. The Cooper-Hewitts blazed.

“Camera!.. Speed!”

Isaac Bell, clad in what had become his trademark black costume, flying helmet, and goggles, twisted his grip throttle, revving his motorcycle.

The camera operator cranked to speed.

The director took one more look. The locomotive was in place on a raised track bed rented in a remote corner of a Southern Pacific freight yard. Smoke and steam gushed from its stack. The engineer leaned his head and shoulders out of its cab. A giant electric fan just outside the camera’s field of focus blew the smoke and steam the length of the locomotive and parted the engineer’s long beard, making it look like the locomotive was speeding down the track.

Isaac Bell’s motorcycle spewed white smoke from its exhaust pipe. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marty, the skinny little Imperial Film mechanician who had tweaked the V-twin engine to make smoke, watching intently. The mechanician gave him the thumbs-up and hurried away, his job done.

Bell twisted his throttle wide open and slapped his clutch lever.

The motorcycle tore into the lights, its exhaust streaming an arresting picture as Bell raced tight circles around the locomotive, jumping the machine into the air every time he crossed the humped train tracks at forty miles per hour. On his fourth landing his front wheel felt wobbly. The camera operator was still cranking. The lights still blazed. Bell poured on the gas for one last jump.

The wheel fell off.

The motorcycle crashed down on its front fork. The rear end left the ground, pivoted straight up, and catapulted Isaac Bell over the handlebars.

Bell flew through the air – skull first – at the locomotive. He tried to tuck into a somersault to fend off with his boots instead of his head, but he was flying at forty miles an hour. As he hurtled, time seemed to stop for the tall detective. It looked as if suddenly the operator were cranking more slowly, resting his arm, and slowing the film. Bell saw the ground pass lazily under him. He saw the Indian standing on its front end with its back wheel spinning in the air, saw the camera itself, perched on its sturdy tripod, saw the wind fan, saw the company of actors, stagehands, grips, and horse wranglers all watching as if nothing were amiss and men performing stunts on motorcycles flew at locomotives every day.

The steel behemoth filled his vision, black as night and big as the sky. An instant later, he smashed into it. A startlingly sharp pain in his ankle told him that his somersault had saved his skull. He bounced off the boiler, fell to the rail bed, and tumbled down the ballast embankment, raking arms and legs on the crushed stone.

Sprawled, dazed, in the dirt, he heard people yelling.

He sat up to put everyone’s mind at ease. Everything hurt, but he thought he would be able to stand in another minute or two.

The yelling stopped – except for the director who was still calling through his megaphone, “That was terrific! Let’s do it one more time!”

Isaac Bell climbed painfully to his feet, walked unsteadily to the wrecked motorcycle, knelt down, and inspected it.

He felt in his jacket that his Browning was still in its holster and moving freely. Thanks to his lightning-fast reflexes, he had just survived the Los Angeles version of the Cincinnati, Chicago, and Jersey City attacks on Van Dorns who shopped in the Leipzig Organ stores.

“Hurry it up,” the director shouted. “We’re losing the light.”

“Soon as you get me a new machine,” said Bell as he limped off in search of the mechanician who had tuned his motorcycle.

The Hell’s Bellscompany had established a temporary machine shop in an abandoned caboose on a rusty siding. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he mounted the ramp the mechanician had laid to wheel the motorcycle up and down, and entered the gloomy interior in a sudden rush.

“Marty,” he asked in a low and dangerous voice. “Tell me who took a hacksaw to my front axle.”

Marty did not reply.

Bell found him on the floor behind his workbench, his eyes bulging wide open, fixed intently on nothing. Bell lighted a lamp and looked at him closely. The mechanician had been garroted with a wire that had cut his head half off his neck. It looked like the Acrobat had silenced his accomplice with the same thin cable he had wrapped around the neck of the Golden State Limited express messenger he had murdered in New Mexico. It was also the same cable he had used to vault over the locomotive and to “fly” from the Mauretania’s boat deck.

Isaac Bell spoke out loud, addressing the Acrobat as if the murderer were still in the caboose.

“I am worrying you,” he said, reviewing in his mind the many strands of his investigation and wondering which had alarmed the murderer. “I am making you afraid.”

The Acrobat apparently saw those strands as forming a net. Which ones? Bell wondered. Which of the many strands had spooked him?

Grady Forrer was pursuing a Hamburg Bankhaus – Imperial Film connection. Andrew Rubenoff had connected Hamburg Bankhaus to Leipzig Organ & Piano and was now hunting Imperial’s foreign bankers. The Van Dorn field offices had exposed Leipzig Organ for a sham. Bell himself had tracked Leipzig’s Fritz Wunderlich to Denver, and now the men watching the consulates had the German’s likeness. Joe Van Dorn was working his Washington, D.C., contacts to establish German consulate connections. Larry Saunders was probing City Hall for the Imperial Building floor plans. Texas Walt had covered Imperial Protection and was currently employed as an extra inside Imperial’s penthouse studios.

If the Acrobat had ordered the murder of Art Curtis in Berlin, then he knew the Van Dorns were after him. The attacks on the Van Dorn apprentices confirmed that. But today’s sabotage of Bell’s motorcycle indicated that the Acrobat had penetrated Bell’s “insurance man” disguise, too, and saw him either as aligned with the Van Dorn Detective Agency or an actual agent of the outfit.

“I still don’t know what you’re up to. But I’m closer than I think.”

Then it struck Bell hard. If – as seemed likely, though not close to proven – Imperial Film was mixed up with the Acrobat and Krieg Rüstungswerk, then Marion’s job at Imperial was no coincidence, but rather the Acrobat’s cold-blooded ace in the hole.

* * *

Bell rode the Angels Flight funicular railway two blocks up a steep grade to the residential neighborhood on top of Bunker Hill, where he had rented a mansion after Marion took the job Irina Viorets had offered at Imperial. Concealing his limp, he climbed the back steps and bounded into the kitchen.

“Just in time for our first married home-cooked meal,” Marion greeted him. “Oh, Isaac, what a wonderful day this is.” She hugged him hard and kissed him. “Would you like a cocktail for whatever you’ve done to your poor foot?”

“I’ll mix them,” Bell smiled, ruefully, reminded forcibly that if women were more observant than men, then women who made movies missed absolutely nothing.

Marion’s eyes were ablaze with joy. “It’s like I died and went to heaven. Irina gives me anything I want – locomotives, Pullmans, mule trains, Conestoga wagons. She even got me Billy Bitzer to operate the camera.”

“Congratulations.”

“Billy brought Dave Davidson, his number one assistant, to operate the second camera. So I have the two best operators in the business. And to top it all off – do you remember Franklin Mowery?”

“The old bridge builder. Of course. He worked for Lillian’s father.”

“Franklin retired out here. I invited him to where we’re taking pictures to answer my research questions. He’s a walking encyclopedia of railroad history, having been there for most of it. Fabulous stories. And here’s the best part: Dave Davidson has a portrait painter’s eye; he took one look at Franklin’s granite profile and, without saying a word, just started cranking the camera, pretending he was adjusting it or something. Later he showed me twenty feet of Franklin Mowery. The camera absolutely loveshim. So I’m putting him in the picture– Oh, Isaac, I’m so excited!”

“Indeed,” said Bell, wondering, How can I ask her to leave this job on a suspicion?

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I warned Franklin Mowery that you are working in disguise and not to reveal that you’re a Van Dorn.”

“It probably doesn’t matter by now.”

“Is that what happened to your foot?”

“My ankle got off easy compared to my motorcycle,” said Bell, and told her what had happened. Then he laid out the strands of the Talking Pictures investigation one by one, from Grady and Rubenoff to his and Texas Walt’s fruitless spying inside Imperial. “Having failed to kill you,” asked Marion, “what do you suppose he’ll try next?”

Isaac Bell looked his beautiful wife in the eye. “You tell me.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Isaac. You’re worried that I’m somehow in danger because I’m ‘coincidentally’ taking pictures for the same company where you installed Clyde Lynds, and now you are having second thoughts.”

“I couldn’t put it better myself,” said Bell. “Something is amiss at Imperial.”

“But I can’t believe that Irina would be part of anything that would hurt me. Besides, you don’t knowthat Imperial isn’t on the up-and-up.”

“Imperial’s finances are deeply suspect.”

“ Everyone’sbusiness finances in moving pictures are deeply suspect. It’s a brand-new business. Nobody knows what’s really going on. We’re all making it up as we go along. That’s why the bankers lend money for only one picture at a time.”

“Are you sure you’ve noticed nothing unusual while taking pictures for The Iron Horse? Nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing different than you’d expect or have seen on other jobs?”

Marion pondered his question. “Only one thing. There’s a film-stock shortage. Everyone in Los Angeles is talking about it. For a month or so, film’s become hard to get and very expensive. Yesterday, Billy and Dave came to me with long faces. Their stock was old. It smelled awful, and they said the pictures would be terribly overexposed. I telephoned Irina. In less than one hour a truck raced up with more than we could use of the most pristine stock you could ask for. It was precisely perforated and smelled fresh as a meadow. You should have seen Billy and Dave rubbing their hands like Silas Marner counting his gold.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It was Eastman Kodak stock, straight from the factory.”

“But Imperial is independent. Eastman made a deal with the Edison Trust: they won’t sell to independents.”

“Where they got it, I don’t know. But for Imperial, at least, there is no shortage.” Anyway, if you’ll limp into the dining room, I’ll bring dinner.”

“What is our first married home-cooked meal?”

“The same as our first-ever home-cooked meal. Do you remember what I made you?”

“I remember you invited me to dinner and cooked pot roast and vegetables. It was splendid, though I have a vague memory that we got sidetracked before dessert– Marion, I’ll bet you’ve some cowboys in The Iron Horse.”

“Bunkhousesful.”

“Got room for one more?”

“Texas Walt?”

Bell nodded. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“If that will make you feel better, of course.”

“I would feel much better knowing my good friend the deadly gunfighter was looking out for you.”

Marion smiled. “Walt may not be a deadly gunfighter much longer. Movie people are all talking about ‘the tall Texan’ playing cowboy parts. Some people think he could be a star.”

“Please don’t turn his head until we’re sure you’re safe and sound.”

38

Pauline Grandzau had been memorizing the St. Germain section of her Baedekeron the train when suddenly she had to run from a gendarme who demanded her papers at a station stop. The last few miles of what should have been a twelve-hour train ride stretched to another full day clinging to the underside of a slow-moving coal car that finally dumped her near an open-air market in Paris in the rain. Thanks to the tourist guidebook and the foldout map, she found the Rue du Bac as night fell, climbed a steep flight of stairs, and staggered into the Van Dorn Detective Agency’s Paris field office, exhausted, wet, and hungry.

An enormous man seated next to a bright light asked, “What do you want here, miss?”

At least that’s what it sounded like. He spoke French. She did not. But she saw in his eyes what he assumed: a street urchin with dirty hands and face and stringy braids and a snuffling nose had sneaked into the building either begging for money or running from the police.

He asked her again. The light was so bright it was blinding her. He stood up, and the entire room, which had a linoleum floor and a desk and a chair and an interior door that led somewhere, started spinning.

“Is this the Van Dorn Detective Agency Paris field office?” she asked.

He looked surprised she spoke English.

“Yes, it is,” he replied with an accent like Detective Curtis’s. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

“Are you Detective Horace Bronson?”

“I’m Bronson. Who are you?”

Pauline Grandzau pulled herself up to her full five feet two inches. “Apprentice Van Dorn detective Pauline Grandzau reporting from Berlin.”

She tried to salute, but her arm was heavy, and her legs were rubbery. She saw the linoleum rushing at her face. Bronson moved with surprising speed and caught her.

* * *

“Cable from the Paris field office, Mr. Bell.”

It was from Bronson.

It was long and detailed.

Isaac Bell read it twice.

A hunter’s gleam began burning in his eyes. A smile of grim satisfaction lighted his stern face like the sun glancing off a frozen river, and he vowed to Fritz Wunderlich, to Krieg Rüstungswerk, to Kaiser Wilhelm II, and especially to Imperial Army General Major Christian Semmler that Van Dorn Detective Arthur Curtis had not died in vain.

Book Four: Lights! Camera! Speed!

39

“Telegrapher! On the jump!” Isaac Bell summoned the man who sent and received Morse code on the field office’s private telegraph.

“Wire Mr. Joseph Van Dorn: ‘Inquire U.S. Army and State Department German General Major Christian Semmler. Show them Wunderlich sketch.’

“Wire Research Chief Grady Forrer, New York: ‘Who is German General Major Christian Semmler? Obtain photograph or newspaper sketch.’

“Cable Horace Bronson, Paris Office: ‘Who is German General Major Christian Semmler? Obtain photograph or newspaper sketch.’

“Wire Detective Archie Abbott, New York: ‘Ask Lord Strone about German General Major Christian Semmler. Show Wunderlich sketch.’

“Send them. On the jump!”

* * *

Of the responses that flooded in over the next twenty-four hours, the one that intrigued Bell most came from the boss. Joe Van Dorn had discovered that General Major Semmler was married to Sophie Roth Semmler, the sole heiress of the Krieg Rüstungswerk fortune. Such wealth and power explained the lone operator’s ability to operate far more independently than a typical German Army officer.

But Joseph Van Dorn’s informants in the Army and diplomatic corps knew almost nothing else about Semmler. The general major did not seek the limelight. A U.S. Army observer in China had heard that Semmler had established an excellent war record in the Boxer Rebellion. A retired embassy attaché had repeated rumors of a fearsome reputation in the South African War, when Semmler had supposedly led rebel Boer commandos behind British lines. But as none of Van Dorn’s informants among the diplomats and soldiers had actually met Semmler, the sketch of Fritz Wunderlich proved useless in Washington.

Grady Forrer’s researchers had hunted in vain for photographs or newspaper sketches. Not unusual, Grady pointed out: only if Semmler had been a prominent member of a visiting German party or an attaché to the kaiser’s embassy would American newspapers have taken note of the soldier.

Bell hoped for more from Bronson in Paris as he would have access to European papers and magazines. But Bronson cabled of the same dearth of images. Even the new man in Berlin could find no photographs or sketches in the German press. Considering how military men were lionized in Germany, it seemed that Christian Semmler went out of his way not to court publicity.

Bell was disappointed, but hardly surprised. As a private detective who habitually avoided cameras, he expected no less of a soldier experienced at behind-the-lines guerrilla warfare. Nonetheless, he had learned that Semmler was rich. And he was independent, which Bell had already guessed. But if the thirty-five-year-old, powerfully built soldier and spy had green eyes, blond hair, and long arms “like a monkey,” no one had yet matched his face to the sketch of Fritz Wunderlich, so they were no closer to proving whether Semmler and Wunderlich were one and the same.

* * *

“That is an unfriendly gate,” said Lillian Hennessy Abbott, braking her big red Thomas Flyer Model K 6-70 to a stop in front of it. “Do you suppose it’s locked?”

“I was told it would be,” said Archie.

Attached to tall stone pillars, the double gate that blocked the road into the Earl of Strone’s Greenwich estate was made of heavy wrought-iron bars painted black and looked, Archie Abbott thought, very much locked.

He stepped down from the big touring car in which they had driven up to Connecticut and paused to steady himself on the fender. Lillian had gone out of her way to drive smoothly, having deliberately chosen the auto for its long wheelbase, instead of her beloved Packard Wolf racer, but the roads had been hellish.

“Are you all right, Archie?”

“Tip-top.” He hinged out a blade of spring steel from what looked like an ordinary penknife and worked the lock open. He swung the two halves of the gate wide enough for the auto. Lillian drove through, and Archie locked it behind them.

“Drive on.”

A quarter mile along a curving driveway paved with crushed slate, they saw a sizable mansion of brick decorated with stone in a style that reminded Archie of Henry VIII’s palace at Hampton Court.

The thick, wooden front door had no knocker. To save his knuckles, Archie banged on it with the butt of the Navy Colt.45 automatic he had taken to carrying since being shot nearly to death. When he heard the door being opened, he smoothly holstered the weapon and drew a calling card from his vest.

A strapping butler – a retired sergeant major, by the look of him – who had been stuffed into a swallowtail coat peered out with an expression that was less than friendly.

Archie proffered his card. “Be so good as to inform His Lordship that Archibald Angel Abbott and Mrs. Abbott are here for tea.”

“I am not aware you’re expected, sir.”

“We sailed on the Mauretaniawith His Lordship. He invited my wife to drop in if we were ever in the neighborhood. We are in the neighborhood.”

The butler took in the sight of Lillian behind the wheel of the Thomas. She had removed her dust hat and veil. Her blond hair shone in the sun, and her eyes gleamed like sapphires. It occurred to the butler that the next time he clapped eyes on a smile like hers it would be on the far side of the Pearly Gates. “Please come in, sir. I will inform His Lordship.”

“I will collect my wife.”

As he helped Lillian out of her auto, Archie said, “I feel vaguely like a procurer.”

Lillian kissed him on the lips. “And you would be so good at it. Fortunately for me, you have other talents. Are you sure you’re all right?’

“I am alive and in love on a beautiful day in the country.”

Strone was in tweed. He had a shotgun draped over his arm. “Lovely to see you again, my dear,” he said to Lillian. To Archie he was brusque. “Just going out for a tramp about the marsh. Come along if you like.”

He put a deerstalker on his head and led the way at a quick pace down a garden path and over lawns, heading toward a vast marsh that disappeared in the haze of the Long Island Sound.

“I was under the impression that my front gate was locked.”

“We locked it on the way in,” said Archie.

Lillian said, “Let’s walk slowly. My husband is recovering from an accident.”

“Terribly sorry. Of course we’ll slow our pace. What sort of accident, Abbott?”

“I bumped into a Webley-Fosbery.”

Strone stopped walking and looked at Archie. “Hmmm. You never mentioned that on the boat.”

“Automatic revolvers never make for wedding small talk.”

“I say, are you in the insurance trade like your friend Bell?”

“Isaac Bell and I will remain in the insurance trade as long as you remain ‘retired.’”

A smile twitched Strone’s red cheeks and gray mustache.

“One does not step out of retirement willy-nilly.”

“What if I gave you a good reason?”

“I pride myself as a man open to reason. Though one man’s reason could be another man’s poison.”

“Then I won’t give you a reason. I’ll give you a name.”

“A name?”

“Semmler,” said Archie, who observed nothing on Strone’s face move except his pupils, which narrowed momentarily.

“Can’t say it rings a bell, old boy,” Strone lied.

“Christian Semmler.”

“No. I don’t believe—”

“Colonel Christian Semmler. The rank he held when you were stationed in South Africa.”

“Where did you get the notion that I was stationed in South Africa?”

“ OberstChristian Semmler, as our German friends addressed him.”

“I don’t have German friends.”

“Lately,” said Archie, “I’ve been dropping mine. Semmler has been promoted several times since the South African War. He is currently a general major.”

Strone abruptly dropped all pretense of ignorance. “Yes, I know.”

“He is plotting in America.”

“Plotting what?”

“We don’t know.”

Strone’s jaw tightened. “He is a slippery, nervy bastard. He was as cold-blooded an operator as any we encountered, harassing our columns, sniping our pickets. And God help the scouts he waylaid. He made the Boers seem sweet as schoolboys.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

“I only saw him once. And only through a glass at a great distance.”

“Lillian?” said Archie.

Lillian pulled a notebook from her long duster and opened it to the sketch of Fritz Wunderlich.

“Did he look like this man?”

Strone took wire-frame spectacles from the folds of his shooting clothes and studied the copy of the salesman’s sketch. “This man is older,” he said at last. “Of course it’s been, what?”

“Nearly ten years,” said Archie. “How far away was he?”

Strone looked across the marsh in silence, his mouth working, his eyes bleak.

Archie and Lillian exchanged a glance. Archie gestured for her to say nothing.

“One thousand yards,” Strone answered at last. “We thought we were safe from his rifle at that range and that we could ride closer. And, of course, he was just one man alone… What made you come to me?”

“Isaac Bell had a feeling you were more than you appeared to be. He was right. When we dug deeper, we learned that you were decorated in that action.”

Strone flushed angrily. “Ruddy nonsense.”

“What do you mean, nonsense? You received the Distinguished Service Order.”

“I mean nonsense. Semmler lured us onto a bridge he had mined with dynamite. He sniped the wounded with rifle fire. My DSO was awarded to the only man that murderous swine missed.”

* * *

Isaac Bell rounded up Texas Walt Hatfield and Larry Saunders and a crew of Saunders’s handpicked men for a powwow.

“Information from Art Curtis and his Berlin apprentice, expanded upon by Archie Abbott and the Research department, proves that the murderer we called the Acrobat, the drummer Fritz Wunderlich, and German Imperial Army General Major Christian Semmler are all one and the same. In addition, Mr. Van Dorn has established that General Major Christian Semmler is not only Krieg Rüstungswerk’s agent, but also a principal. To put it bluntly, he married the boss’s daughter.

“Semmler’s alias, Fritz Wunderlich, flew the coop when he caught wind of our visits to his shops and my calling on his hotel in Denver. Before we congratulate ourselves on Wunderlich’s loss of a string of shops that gave him and his accomplices safe passage around the continent, remember that the German consulates offer General Major Semmler even safer places to hide, get money, rest, eat, and sleep. Tracking Semmler will not be like tracking an ordinary criminal to his hideout. As much as we might enjoy it, we cannot smash open the doors of a sovereign nation’s consulates.

“I had already expressed copies of this ‘Wunderlich’ picture to every field office covering a German consulate in New York, Chicago, St. Louis, San Francisco, and the vice-consul’s office here in Los Angeles. Now I’ve informed them it’s a likeness of Semmler.”

* * *

“Isaac Bell’s voice resonates with confidence,” said Christian Semmler. “Listen!”

He thrust the telephone earpiece at Hermann Wagner.

Wagner, sick with fear, took it with a trembling hand. The Berlin banker had seen the Donar leader’s face for the first time tonight. He had speculated that the mysterious leader might be Semmler, mainly because of rumors about the kaiser’s affection for the officer they called the Monkey. The heavy browridges, the massive protruding jaw, and the gangly arms were frightening confirmation. The leader was indeed the kaiser’s favorite, General Major Christian Semmler. For some reason Semmler had allowed him to see his face, and Wagner feared that Semmler intended to kill him when he was done.

“Listen to him!”

Wagner pressed the telephone to his ear.

He and Semmler were hunched across from each other over a table in the cellar of Germany’s Los Angeles vice-consul’s mansion. The vice-consul was upstairs, aware in only the most general terms of the use they were putting his building to, and probably deeply relieved that he had been forbidden entry to his own cellar.

The telephone was one that Christian Semmler had had connected via the vice-consul’s private line to a microphone he had stolen from Clyde Lynds and had paid an electrician to hide in the Van Dorn Detective Agency. Like an innkeeper tapping a keg of lager, Semmler had laughed as he explained the eavesdropping system to the disbelieving Hermann Wagner.

It seemed like a miracle. More than a miracle, it seemed impossible. But Wagner could actually hear Isaac Bell speaking to his private investigators even though a full two miles separated the Van Dorn Detective Agency from the German consulate.

“You hear?”

“A little. Not very well.”

“I know that!” snapped Semmler. “Lynds’s microphone is not thoroughly perfected yet. But he’s on the right track, and if you listen closely, you can hear the confidence in Bell’s voice. Why shouldn’t he sound assured? He’s learned so much these past several days.”

“Yes, he has,” Wagner agreed nervously.

“Events do not always unfold as we plan them,” said Semmler. “It is the nature of plans, and events.” He looked up and his green eyes sparkled with amusement. “I recall one night on the high veldt, when three British Tommies cornered me, my escape went according to plan. But no sooner had I killed them than I was seized by my arm and dragged to the ground. I could hardly believe it. I was attacked out of nowhere by a lion! A lion! The beast was attracted by the scent of the Tommies’ blood.”

Semmler reached across the table and laid a powerful hand on Hermann Wagner’s arm. “Relax, Herr Wagner, you look terrified.”

“I amterrified,” the banker admitted. “You warned me on the Mauretanianever to look on your face. Tonight you show me your face. What am I to think but the worst?”

“Do not worry. You are valuable alive. I still need you. I need you more than ever. There is much to be done.”

“What can be done? Bell is onto you. And he’s closing in on Imperial Film.”

Semmler snatched the telephone from the banker’s hand and listened. A brilliant smile filled his strange face. It brightened his eyes and spread his lips, but bright as it was, Wagner thought, it looked cold as distant lightning.

“Bell,” said the leader of the Donar Plan, “would sound less confident if he knew we could hear him.”